* * * * *
Ask me not--for I cannot tell,
I can only guess--how the end befell:
A wifely word, an angry scowl,
A bit of a grumble, a bit of a growl,
A scolding here, a squabbling there,
And here the sound of an ugly swear,
A cry of despair from the sore opprest,
A secret call to the "Miners' Rest,"
A sudden revolt from the brooms and mats,
And a roar from a thousand throats--"Down brats!"
* * * * *
"What--striking again?" you cry, aghast.
Nay, friend, cheer up, for the worst is past;
A glint of blue may be seen through the grey--
_They are asking again for an eight-hour day_.
* * * * *
THE DISCIPLINARIAN.
Saluting is rapidly becoming a thing of the past, even among
British-born soldiers. Dating from the Armistice, it has lapsed more
and more, until now it is practically extinct.
Now I regard this as serious. I have ever been a stickler for
discipline, and consequently I dislike it when men pass by--not, like
the Levite, on the other side--but close to me without so much as a
click of the eyeballs.
So I decided that I as a disciplinarian would make a stand against it;
I would keep my eyes open for any particularly flagrant case. When I
found it I intended to let myself go. I promised myself an agreeable
ten minutes--or longer, if I got properly worked up.
My chance came the other day. I was strolling down Regent Street when
three N.
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